Treacherous Oceans
by Algrene
Summary: The Surprise sails for the Brest blockade. Jack is determined to join the squadron, but when one of his officers is washed overboard...
1. Chapter 1

Author: Algrene

Rating: PG13

Disclaimers: I do not own any of the Master and Commander names or characters, but I do own the plotline and a few characters I made up. 

HMS _Surprise_ tore through the water, the fierce January gale adhering around her. Her crew was battered and exhausted, bilge pumps clanking perpetually, and constant leaks were being stopped up. Captain Jack Aubrey emerged from a hatchway to the anarchy on deck.

"Sir!" First Lieutenant Pullings approached him with difficulty, water running down his pale face and greatcoat.

"What's that, Mr Pullings?"

"I don't think we can hold this much longer, sir,"

"I'd say we don't have much choice in the matter, Tom,"

Before the lieutenant could reply, an elephantine wave swept over the side. Jack found himself clinging desperately to the rail, catching a green midshipman as he was thrust past him, and seeing a deeply alarmed looking Pullings bourne on his involuntary journey to the starboard rail. The wave passed, Jack threw the midshipman at the hatchway, shouting a tart explanation why the deck was no place for a boy right now after him. The patched foremast was straining under the infinitesimal press of sail.

"Mr Hollar!" Jack summoned the bosun.

"Sir?"

"Pipe hands aloft if you please. Reef the fore mainsail,"

"Aye, sir,"

"SIIIR!"

Jack sighed inwardly as another crisis presented itself in all its frightful glory.  
"SIIIR!" Blakeney yelled, practically swimming towards Jack, "Carronade number seven, sir. It's come loose!"

"Take six men, secure it, quickly now. And my complements to Mr Pullings and will he please come and see me in his cabin when his watch ends,"

"Aye, sir."

Jack dropped into his hammock exhausted, paying no heed to his saturated clothes and sodden hair, and as per usual dropped instantly into a fathomless sleep, reversible only by a change in the wind or a call to Beat to Quarters.

"Sir! Sir!"

"Jack!"

Jack awoke and sat up. He automatically noted the change in the motion of the ship: the storm had all but passed, although Jack was sure it was no more than half an hour since he had fallen asleep. Sephen and Mowett were watching him anxiously.

"Mr Pullings is missing, sir,"


	2. Chapter 2

DISCAIMERS: See part one.

Jack stared outwards at the dusky sea, gripping the rail until his knuckles were white. The deck was silent, even the midshipmen looked forlornly despondent, clustered in a miserable little gathering at one side of the quarterdeck. Mowett stood his watch wordlessly behind Jack, telescope under his arm. Killick was offering his captain some coffee, but he couldn't drink it. He would have to perform the service due to a fallen officer, he knew he would have to, but it just didn't seem…

"Sir, might we send out a search party?" asked Mowett.

"Sir, our orders are to hasten to the Brest blockade. The storm has lost us days already," said Allen, the sailing master. Jack glared stonily at him from across the deck.

"Jack, the water is bitter cold, and as you are well aware the currents are deadly strong. The chances that he has survived until now are virtually nil," said Stephen.

Jack's severe glare shifted onto Stephen.

"I will not lose men so easily," Jack couldn't bear the thought of Tom as he fought to stay alive in the icy water, unnoticed. How many lives had he saved? How many times had Tom fished one of the crew from the sea, and emerged, laughing, on the deck? Jack would have willingly jumped into the water himself to rescue Tom, if only he had known. He had seen Tom be swept away past him, but he had been too stupid to realise that his lieutenant might have been thrown into the raging ocean. Too stupid to notice sooner that he was missing. Too intent on sleeping. Sleeping while Tom was drowning. He remembered when he had first met Tom, as a lieutenant he had seen the nervous midshipman aboard his ship and had watched him quickly find his leadership. Then on his first independent command, the _Sophie_, he had inherited Pullings from the _Sophie_'s previous captain. He had been a master's mate, passed for lieutenant but still not promoted. When Jack had been made Post-Captain, he had promoted Tom to lieutenant and taken him with him. He visualized the radiant joy on the young lieutenant's face as he got the news, his face grinning good-naturedly at Jack…

"Call out the boats. He may yet be alive."


	3. Chapter 3

The Captain of the _Persephone, _a merchant vessel in the English Channel, leant against the hand rail with relief. The January storms had been potent, but the _Persephone_ had survived intact. They had encountered numerous pieces of ships, barrels, even masts float past.

"Man overboard!"

"What?"

"There's a man in the water to larboard, sir,"

"Well then get him out of the water for God's sake, Johnson, and pass the word for the doctor,"

"Aye, sir,"

The man was brought aboard, unconscious and dripping water. The seamen lay the stranger gently down on the deck. He was wearing a thick greatcoat and knee length boots. He had a young face tanned by the wind and weather, and long dark brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. The ship's sawbones, generously called a doctor, leant over him and opened up his greatcoat, revealing a Royal Navy officer's uniform.

"Well?"

"He's alive, sir,"

"Mr Johnson; food, water and rum for the young man. And berth him with the officers until we find out more about him,"

Just then the new arrival opened his eyes. They were startlingly blue, and currently bore a dazedly stunned expression. He coughed water groggily onto the deck.

Captain Layton bent over him.

"Welcome aboard HM dispatch vessel _Persephone_,"

"Thomas Pullings, First Lieutenant, HMS _Surprise_,"

"Well, Mr Pullings, lucky we found you,"

"Thank you, sir," winced the lieutenant, before dropping heavily back down on the deck again.

Layton raised an eyebrow at the doctor.

"Something's wrong, sir," he said, and added to a group of curious seamen, " Take him to the sick berth,"


	4. Chapter 4

"Mr Bonden?"

The coxswain shook his head.

"Still nothing, sir,"

They had searched for three hours, and still found nothing but small scaly fish, wood and barnacles.

"Call the boats in," Jack ordered, "Mr Allen, plot our position and set a course to join the squadron West of Brest,"

"Aye sir,"

Jack wrung his hands together in frustration, his face terrifying a passing midshipman. He would have to enter into the ship's book; _Opened beef cask No. 346. Fst. Lt. Tm. Pullings, Missing_. He couldn't put DD, _Discharged, Dead_ next to Tom's name. Not yet. Perhaps there was still hope.

"Uh, sir?"

Jack turned to see Bonden looking at him with deeply pitying eyes. He held out a dripping black object, which Jack took curiously. He identified it as a hat, a bicorn- shape changed by the water but still recognisable. And on the inside were sown the letters _Lt._ _Thomas Pullings_. It was his oldest hat, the first lieutenant's hat he had possessed. He had so proudly sown on the _Lt._ before his name.

"Thank-you, Barrett. He'll be wanting that…When he comes back,"


	5. Chapter 5

It was dark. Had he drunk too much last night? Tom forced his reluctant mind to remember. That ache in his head definitely implied over drinking, but he was sure that he would never have drained enough alcohol to make his head ache this much if he knew he had a watch soon. Was this his cabin? Tom didn't recognise the ship's movement as the _Surprise_'s, and that stench was considerably worse than the bilge and ship-smells aboard his own vessel.

Tom gave a long and deeply un-heroic croak in his throat. It hurt.

Trying a different approach, Lieutenant Pullings opened his eyes the tiniest of cracks. He regretted it immensely as light flooded his vision. He gave another, somewhat nobler lamentable sigh.

"Aah, Mr Pullings. We were worried about you." Said a subdued voice. Tom thought that it was not dissimilar to that of a particularly intemperate goat he had known at home as a boy.

With considerable reluctance, he turned his head to look about him for the source of the words. The blinding light seemed to be coming from the tiniest of candles in the corner of the cabin. However, it was currently obscured by a squat, grey-haired man with a deeply melancholy air.

Tom gave him a look not unlike the one he used when he admonished a disobedient midshipman. To his satisfaction, the man took a slightly surprised step backwards.

"I am the surgeon of the _Persephone_, sir," he explained unnecessarily. Tom continued to glare at him loftily.

He brought to mind the day before. He had been in the water; yes, he definitely remembered that. It had been cold- he remembered that particularly vividly as well. He had just made a somewhat dismal report to Captain Aubrey before he had been swept away and over the side. The side- he had bludgeoned his head into that. From there it wasn't that far any more to the water, but he had caught hold of a rope and clung desperately for a while until the next inevitable dip into the sea, which bashed him against the wooden body of the ship and wrung him loose, then just bitter, bitter, gruelling cold and blackness.

"And I am Lieutenant Pullings of His Majesty's frigate, _Surprise,_"

"So you told us yesterday," then he laughed- it sounded out of place in this miserable individual, and it reminded Tom of a donkey with severe indigestion, "You seem to have an iron constitution, Mr Pullings, else we might never have found you. Alive, that is,"

Tom glared deeper at the doctor's braying laugh. Was this a British ship? Or American? Tom reckoned he remembered British accents on deck the night before, but this surgeon sounded almost Irish.

"Am I a prisoner?" he asked sternly.

This instigated a minute of profound mirth in the surgeon of the _Persephone._

"No, sir, no! A prisoner, forsooth, ha, ha,"

Tom allowed himself a somewhat wooden smile.

A burly seaman entered the sickbay whimpering slightly, and the surgeon, much to his consternation, had to leave Mr Pullings and attend to Mr Brown.

Tom noticed the white bandage on his arm, which he examined curiously. His chest was also bound up, restricting his movements. He cursed the bandages lavishly.

Where had the _Surprise _been when he had been spirited off by the water? Think, Tom, _think_, he told himself, but even without the pounding in the back of his head, the _Surprise _had been unable to take sound readings for days, all Tom remembered was that they were some miles West of Brest.

Raised voices met his ears.

"Sir, I must protest, the patient is not well enough by any means,"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, doctor, he is well enough to talk to me,"

"Oh, but siir!"

This last protest seemed of no avail, as a strongly built man with greying hair strode in, followed by the harassed looking doctor. The man smiled.

"Good morning; Mr Pullings?"

Tom nodded warily.

"I must welcome you aboard my ship, sir. You are feeling better I trust?"

"I'm quite well, sir, thank you,"

"No you are not," put in the doctor, "You have a fractured wrist, two cracked ribs and a bump on your head the size of Plymouth. You are very far from well, sir,"

"No, really, sir, feel little ill effect," Tom said, desperate not to be trapped in this sick berth with this doctor a minute longer.

"I'm glad to hear it. I would be glad if you would join me and my officers for dinner tonight?"

"Oh, sir, I'd be delighted!"

"Sir!" said the doctor vehemently.

The captain gave him a stern look which caused the doctor to cower, him being almost half his venerated captain's height.

"Oh, very well, sir!" the doctor decided at length, sounding much as if he had just made a decision to attempt murder on Prime-Minister Pitt in broad daylight with a wooden toothpick, "But I warn you sir, it is on your head when our good Mr Pullings passes away at the table,"

"Come, come, doctor, I'm sure that is not the case." Said the captain irritably, "If Mr Pullings feels in the least bit ill he can return to your nannying,"

Tom was watching this with amusement- he would have quite happily given a year of his life just to hear any of the Navy's surgeons (apart from perhaps Dr Maturin) give any of these rejoinders to their captains. But, such was the merchant service and Tom knew it well, having served in it as an unemployed midshipman.


	6. Chapter 6

Half an hour into dinner and Tom was regretting his hasty acceptance of Captain Layton's invitation. His head was pounding something terrible, something he was trying to remedy by drinking vast amounts of the wine which sat invitingly here and there on the table.

The other officers were an amiable set of men- apart from one adolescent that glared at him darkly from the other end of the table, probably a deserter from one of his commissions who had found easy promotion in the comparatively effortless life in a merchantman.

"So, Mr Pullings, you are second lieutenant of the _Surprise_, am I correct?"

"First lieutenant, sir," said Tom, impulsively swallowing some obscure piece of meat laid out on the table.

Captain Layton smiled, "Then I expect Captain Aubrey will be missing you,"

Tom looked his surprise.

"You know Captain Aubrey, sir?"

Conversation was interrupted, however, as the Captain's steward, an obliging young creature and the complete opposite to Killick, with his gravely whinge and his brilliant cooking.

"Sir," he piped in his innocent high pitch, "Mr Brown says what there's a sail on the larboard bow,"

Tom was surprised at this message; the usual form would have been sent in a midshipman- Mr Brown's respects sir, and he sent me to report a sail on the larboard bow.

But this was the merchant service, and there was no knowing what more he could expect from it.


	7. Chapter 7

"Aubrey…"

Jack lowered his eyes and wished Admiral Gilbraith would shut up.

He was going to say something consolatory, he knew it. He had already endured this from Stephen.

"Aubrey, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; don't blame yourself for events held in the hands of fate, for how God wills it to be, so it is,"

Jack wished the Admiral would shut up with greater fervour. He was about to say something deeply religious, as usual.

"You should pray to the Almighty that you sir, and the lives of your crew, and your own were preserved against all likelihood. Unfathomable indeed are the workings of the Lord."

"Aye aye, My Lord." Said Jack wearily.

"I suggest that you look to some quiet contemplation at times like these,"

"Aye aye, My Lord," he said again.

"Chaire will give you my written orders. Good day. Dissmissed."

As ever, Gilbraith's religious teachings much outnumbered his military ones, and his orders were usually squeezed into the very ends of his interviews, if they were even mentioned.

His written orders, given to him by the Captain of the Fleet, requested and required him to make his way, with utmost dispatch, to an inlet near Brest and to sink, burn or take the three French privateers sheltering within.

This mission pleased Jack- it was one after his own heart, but also Jack remembered painfully that it had been after his first lieutenant's own heart as well.

"Mr Mowett," Jack called to his new first officer, "I want to be underway within the hour,"

"Sir." The lieutenant's usually jovial round face looked pale and drawn, and although his saluted smartly, jack could tell that his thoughts were not unlike his own.


	8. Chapter 8

"Load the guns! I shan't give in without a fight, Mr Pullings. We have some chance yet."

"As you say, sir," said Tom, automatically grabbing a glass from the hands of a midshipman (who, to Tom's horror, said: 'Oi!' and was ignored) and squinting at the French privateer. It was decidedly small: probably a sloop and only that by courtesy since it only had two masts.

The merchantman's crew was better trained at gunnery than Tom had expected: when he had been aboard a merchant vessel, he had had to lick his gun crew into shape, but here they had loaded with a speed which wouldn't have discredited a Navy ship excessively.

"I understand Captain Aubrey is keen on gunnery, so I follow his example as best I can. Pray God it does us some good at least."

Tom smiled despite himself. The likelihood of a dispatch vessel outgunning a privateer was so small Dr Maturin wouldn't be able to find it with a magnifying glass, and Captain Layton was well aware of it.

"You are an experienced gunner, are you not, Mr Pullings?"

Tom grinned. "If there is any way in which I can assist, I should be delighted, sir."

"Then I can leave you in command of the guns? I fear I must go below. There are a great many dispatches which can't fall into the hands of our French friend."

Tom nodded. "Sir."

"Mr Hewitt take the deck!"

"Aye, sir!"

Tom watched the grey-haired figure retreat down the hatchway.

"Run out the long nines," yelled Tom.

"The long nines?" someone said.

"Aye, the long nines! Jump to it now, lads. While we have the weather gauge!"

"The wind's changing," said Layton's first mate. Tom nodded. "About tack!" yelled Hewitt.

As the ship came about onto the starboard tack, Tom vaulted himself off the quarterdeck.

There was a distant thundering.

"Cannonfire!"

"Steady!" yelled Tom, as some of the merchantmen gave each other hesitant glances. "Courage now, we're not in range yet!"

Tom felt himself flinch even as he said it. For all he knew, they could be in range. The privateer likely had bigger, more powerful guns than the _Persephone_.

The balls splashed into the water metres out of range, but close enough that the sea sprayed up onto the deck. The Persephones gave him admiring looks. It had been a blind lucky guess, but he had their confidence now at least.

"Gun captains stand by!" he yelled, standing behind the two long nines on the quarterdeck. "On the roll! …Here it comes! Fire!"

One ball fell wide, but the other slammed into the privateer's helm, sending a shower of splinters over the deck. There was a ragged cheer.

"Well done!" said Tom. "We seek to injure her. Aim for her masts and her bowsprit!"

"Aye, sir."

"Aye!"

"Reload!"

Tom hurdled back off the quarterdeck. There were six guns each side. There was crew enough for just one side. The gun captains watched him expectantly.

"Stand by on the starboard side." Tom turned to Mr Hewitt. He wasn't exactly in a position to order the man around, but… "I want you to set tops'ls when I give the word, and lift them again when I give another."

Without thinking, he saluted, said 'Aye-aye, sir' and sent a group of men up to see to it. Then he said: "Hey!" but a moment later thought better of what he was going to say and gave a shrug. It was because at times like these, you didn't question what you were told to do. You did it, and if you lived through, then you could question it. Not before.

"Fire!" yelled Tom at the long-nine captains. This times both balls struck; one skimmed across the deck, and the other tore through the bowsprit ropes.

He glanced up at the rigging. Five obedient little figures were silhouetted against the blue-white sky.

He nodded to Hewitt. "Now! Starboard broadside, prepare to fire!"

The tops'ls came down, the ship yawed and spun around.

"Fire broadside!" yelled Tom. It thundered out, and Tom felt the little ship straining under the effort.

Splinters flew aboard the privateer, and the little black dots that were its people seethed with activity.

"Mr Hewitt up the tops'ls again!"

Tom saw the flash a moment too late.

A moment later the air was thick with splinters. He felt his hair swept to the side as bits of the ship swept past. And a sudden cold on his forehead. He put up a hand to stem the cascade of blood into his eyes.

"Oh hell! Sixteen pounders!"

Hewitt, who had been staring at the other ship through his own glass, turned to him.

"They're catching up."


End file.
